


someone like you (to lighten the load)

by herowndeliverance (atheilen)



Series: an aegis very essential [2]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Washingdad, as usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/pseuds/herowndeliverance
Summary: Alexander Hamilton tries to find his place on the General's staff, in the Revolution, and in the world. His commander has some ideas on all these subjects.In which certain discoveries are made.(Prequel to "you outshine the morning sun.")





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Scio for validating all my choices, and everyone who's still reading the series!

Hamilton was running out of time. He knew it, and yet his quill remained frozen above the page.  The words seemed like a physical weight in his chest, crowding his throat, his hand.

It was not enough. His efforts, they were not enough, and he was going to fail not only his task but his General, and not only his General but the war effort, and not only the war effort but—

“Hamilton.” The barest brush of a hand on his shoulder. “Son, are you all right?”

The inkpot went flying, as Hamilton’s hand knocked it over. Half the ink spilled over the words he had already scratched out, painstakingly slow, too slow, and now Hamilton was going to have to do it all again, and resentment burned bright and hot in his chest.

It stood cloying and thick on his tongue as he spoke. “Sir,” he said, hastily righting the inkpot and getting to his feet. “I—I am well, I’ll attend you momentarily…”

“Alexander.” Washington’s gentleness was as brutal, in its own way, as a slap. Hamilton, as ever, obeyed the implied command, and turned to face the general, whose thick brow was furrowed with something Hamilton had no wish to call concern.  “I merely wished to ensure that you…that you were not in some distress, you have not moved from that spot for some time now."

_ They embellish my elegance and eloquence,  _ Washington had said when they first met, and at the time Hamilton had dismissed that as the perverse false modesty of those who had too much of the wrong kind of confidence. It reminded him of no one so much as Burr, if Burr were Southern and thus even more slyly polite.

But it hadn't taken Hamilton long before he realized that there was nothing false about that modesty at all. There was nothing polished about the General's speech, at least not in conversation. And indeed, it seemed that the more important a discussion was to Washington, the less facility he had with words.

"Why would I be in any distress," Hamilton said, flat.

"Your hand froze," Washington said, and oh, there it was, that was the mistake Hamilton always made when dealing with Washington: to assume that just because he kept quiet about his observations that they were not being made. "That does not happen often."

Hamilton felt heat flood his cheeks at the implied criticism. "I was merely hesitating over a matter of the most politic phrasing, sir."

"Ah," said Washington, at once more at ease. "Well, perhaps I can be of some assistance. You know you don't need to finish your drafts before showing them to me."

"Surely it is my job to be of assistance to you, sir, not the other way around." The other aides…Harrison and Tilghman and Meade, had made that very clear to him when he first arrived. Their job was to make the General's life easier, to smooth problems out, not to become problems themselves. Anyone who did that would not only have the General's wrath but that of the rest of the family to deal with, and Tench was a scary son of a bitch when he wanted to be.

"Your use to me is not in question, Hamilton," said the general, sounding impatient. No, not impatient—exasperated, the way he got when one of his staff failed to grasp the point he wished to convey. It was rare that Hamilton found himself on the other end of that tone—he'd learned to read the General carefully, the way he'd puzzled over his Latin in preparatory school in Elizabethtown. Following the General's train of thought was rather like following the logic of a Latin sentence, in that you looked for the action at the end of it and worked your way backward. Easy enough once you learned the trick of it.

But here and now, whatever grammar, whatever logic governed the General's behavior—and one did, Hamilton knew that; nothing the man did came from nowhere—was incoherent to him. Hamilton disliked feeling that the rules had changed all at once.

_ I just learned you, _ he thought, nonsensically, and then,  _ I am so tired. _

The General, too, looked tired, and all at once Alexander wished to do something about that. Wished to ease his burdens, for all he bore them so nobly.

That impulse led him to more honesty than he would have chosen. "It's just….Congress, sir."

The general nodded. "Congress." He asked for no explanation. Then again, he would hardly require one. "Hamilton. I…would not have you shoulder blame, for the failures of a body which…lacks understanding of the trials we face. That they do is no fault of yours."

Hamilton snorted. "I  _ don't  _ blame myself at all for their  _ idiocy…" _

"Colonel."

"Sir." Alexander's blood was up now; he could feel it flooding his cheeks with the telltale blush that always betrayed his high emotions. "You hired me to speak the truth to you, did you not?"

_ The gentlemen of my family all have good breeding and impeccable prospects, which is only proper, _ Washington had said.  _ Which means, to put it bluntly, that they will choose tact over truth every time. I can ill afford that. I know you will never flatter me. _

"I brought you into my family for many reasons, Hamilton, your understanding and eloquence not least among them. Kindly apply those sterling qualities to the problem at hand instead of railing like a child, if you please."

Hamilton should not have been surprised, anymore. It had shocked him the first few times; that General Washington, known for his virtue and probity, should possess a penchant for offhand, casual cruelty. It was so at odds with the portrait of the man Alexander had painted in his head, and Alexander could not help but believe that a man as great as General Washington should not have flaws that were all too easy for Alexander to recognize in himself. In his weaker moments he struggled not to see it as a betrayal.

Which it wasn't. General Washington was Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, and Alexander Hamilton was nothing but an upjumped scribbler with pretensions to rank and fortune. Washington could treat him as he willed. "Sir." He bent his head to his work again. This squabbling would neither clothe nor feed the army.

"Forgive me," the general said. "That was unworthy, and I apologize. Put away your quill for now, Hamilton…there is little use in continuing this exercise just now, for either of us."

Hamilton could think of no response to make to that but a blank stare. If there was no use in his work, then what use was his presence on the staff, or their continued efforts?

“Have a drink with me,” the general clarified. “I could use it, and the company.”

Hamilton, in the middle of bending over to clean up the mess his inkpot made, stopped. That wouldn’t look good. Already there had been talk about how strong the general’s preference was for his newest secretary, how he seemed to listen to Hamilton more than he did the other staff, and about what reasons there might be for that. If he sought out Hamilton’s company even more…if he tried to treat Hamilton as a friend instead of the subordinate he was…the delicate balance Hamilton had worked to cultivate among his fellows would be upset, and worse, Washington would be weakened.

Alexander had sworn never to be anything but a strength to his commander. If he was to be naught but a secretary, why then, he would be the best damn secretary this army or any other had seen, nothing more or less. Not a liability.

The general evidently read something of his discomfort in his face. “It is not an order,” he said. “Well, not that part of it at any rate. You’re going to take the night off, whether you like it or not. But I would be…most grateful.”

And that…that was unfair. The general should not have to plead, not for the company of his boy secretary, or for anything else.  _ Why do I suspect you might just be the loneliest man in the world? _ he wondered. General Washington was in company with others all day, and hated every minute of it; the aides and staff officers and bodyguards all clamoring for his attention. Alexander, who enjoyed the bustle, had been quietly diverting as many of the requests intended for the general to himself as possible; he thought the general appreciated the moments of quiet Alexander had been able to steal for him, though he’d never said as much. Had he guessed wrong?

But he could not deny the general this, no matter how imprudent it seemed on the face of it. “It would be my honor, sir.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He understood that at once, though he could not say why—something in the general’s face closed off, and Alexander’s stomach sank.

“Then let us adjourn at once,” Washington said, too lightly.

There was no privacy at headquarters, by design…Washington needed to be able to summon his aides at a moment’s notice, and his workroom was theirs. But he did have his own rooms, and it was to the room off his bedroom, where he did private entertaining sometimes, that he led Hamilton, the life guard following at a discreet distance. Hamilton immediately felt an intruder.  _ I do not belong here. _

The general’s valet Lee stood when they entered, but Washington waved both him and the life guards away. Hamilton fixed their captain with a stare that was meant to communicate that, no matter their general’s wish for privacy, if they stepped out of reach they’d have to deal with him personally. The captain nodded back, in a way that made Hamilton suspect they’d mock him among themselves later, but that was fine so long as they did their jobs. The men grew too complacent, in Hamilton’s opinion, doing nothing but stand around all day. Let them do some real work for a change. Although a small part of him wished they would continue to be complacent, so that Hamilton could fight assassins on the general’s behalf, which seemed ever so much simpler and more fun than dealing with Congress. The general and the army would know his worth then, and no one could ever gainsay it.

But that was a boy’s foolish fantasy, to be dismissed and never thought of again. Washington did not deserve to be used that way, not even in Alexander’s daydreams.

Washington poured for them both from the sideboard; not the whiskey he shared with his staff during interminable ‘family dinners’ but the good stuff, the one he brought out only when he wanted to ply his generals or visiting dignitaries.  _ He knows he fucked up, _ thought Hamilton uncharitably,  _ and wants to bribe me. _ But then Hamilton knew he had fucked up too, though not how, and would make amends, even clumsily, if he had anything with which to do it.

_ Why is it,  _ he almost said, t _ hat we keep making these mistakes when it comes to each other?  _ Neither of them wanted to, he knew that. They both wanted their partnership—for that was what it was and what it would be, even with Hamilton as the unmistakably junior partner—to flourish. And yet neither of them seemed to be able to help it.

The general handed him his glass. “Take a seat,” he said. “Be at ease.”

The first part of the order was a lot easier to obey than the second. Although he had been in this room before, mostly to take minutes, he had never been here alone with Washington, and he tried not to stare at any one object, feeling as though he would be invading his commander’s privacy by doing so. And yet the evidence of wealth was unmistakable—the furniture here was of better quality than that provided by their host, and Hamilton could see evidence of finery everywhere. There was a desk here too, but instead of correspondence and maps, Hamilton could see what looked like…plans for a house? rolled out in front of him. No, that couldn’t be right…

“What shall we toast to, Hamilton?” the general asked, .

When the boys drank together they always toasted Washington himself, but Hamilton could tell that would not be appropriate here. “To freedom,” he blurted out, as though he were still a student in New York and Washington one of his friends.

Washington gave him a by-now-familiar glance of approval that was not quite a smile. “Aye. You still believe in that, then. That’s good, Hamilton, that’s good. To freedom, then.”

The whiskey went down his throat smoothly, but for all the world Hamilton could not tell the difference between it and what the general usually served. Another mark of how far he had to go, then, how much work he needed to do to belong. He took another sip, tried to let it linger on his tongue long enough that he could taste each note and discern the difference, but not so long that the general could tell what he was trying to do.

He swallowed. “Do you mean to say you do not, sir?”

“Of course I do,” said Washington, and Hamilton almost believed him. “If I have doubts, it is only in whether the people do too. I thought they would, but it seems that all that matters is where their next meal is coming from, or that each day remain much like the one before it.”

The desertions, the lack of re-enlistments, were a sore point with Washington, as Hamilton had reason to know, but never had Hamilton heard his commander admit to such cynicism aloud. That this assessment was in accordance with Hamilton’s private fears didn’t help.

“Ah, but I shouldn’t burden you with an old man’s disappointment,” he said. “You are young, Hamilton, you must keep to your ideals for the sake of us all.”

“Not so young, sir,” said Hamilton. The look the general gave him could only be described as fond. The weight of the man’s regard made him uncomfortable—there was that damn flush in his cheeks again, he was clearly drinking too quickly.

In order to have somewhere else to focus his attention, he looked at the plans on the general’s desk. “If I might ask, sir, what are those?”

“Ah!” The man’s eyes lit up with what, as far as Hamilton could tell, was genuine pleasure. “That is my estate, Mount Vernon. I am…supervising the construction of an addition, from here.”

“You are…renovating your house, sir?” _ In the middle of a war? _

“Indeed.” He sounded sheepish, as well he might. “A man must have a sanctuary in his home, you know, and if duty calls him from it in the flesh, at least he may escape there in his mind.”

Hamilton had never had an estate, so perhaps this wasn’t as crazy as it seemed. “I see, sir.”

He managed to get through another quarter-hour that way, making polite inquiries about the man’s estate, to which Washington responded with more enthusiasm than Hamilton had ever heard him display on any other subject, excluding perhaps horses. Then Washington asked him the question Hamilton had spent his brief tenure on the staff desperately hoping for him to avoid.

“And what of your own ancestral lands, my boy? Hamilton, that’s a Scots name, but your accent is not Scots.”

Hamilton drew breath to answer,  _ my grandfather was laird of Grange, _ but to his horror Washington continued talking. “You’re from the Caribbean, perhaps…Nevis? I know the accent.”

Embarrassment gave way to humiliation. He had worked so hard to eliminate all traces of his origins from his voice, modelling himself after John and Burr and other respectable gentlemen of these countries. And here the general guessed it with a moment’s thought. “I…yes, sir, by way of St. Croix.”  _ Fuck it _ , he thought, and downed the rest of his glass; the general, an attentive host as always, filled it for him. “My father moved us there when we were boys; he thought the opportunities might be better.”

“And what had your mother to say about that?”

What a bizarre question. Hamilton once more had the sense that the ground had shifted abruptly under his feet; General Washington’s countenance now resembled nothing more than the hunting dogs he loved so much, when they had caught the scent of something.  _ What does he want from me? _ If it was to reveal the shameful secret of his birth, and thereby discredit him enough that he could no longer serve on the staff, well. Alexander Hamilton would not go down without a fight. “I…was very young, sir, but I doubt she was consulted.”

“I see. And did your father’s gamble pay off, then?”

His father’s gambles rarely had, starting with marrying his mother at all. “I…we did all right, sir.”

The lie was transparent even to his own ears, and by the naked look of pity Washington gave him, Alexander could tell he heard it too. “When did you visit Nevis, sir?” he asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject. “I had known you visited Barbados, but you never mentioned returning to the Caribbean.”

“Studied me, did you,” Washington said, but there was no accusation in his voice. It was the same fond tone Hamilton had noticed before, though he did not know what he had done to earn it this time.

“I believe in being prepared for every eventuality,” Hamilton said unapologetically. If only he had managed to account for this conversation.

Washington returned to Hamilton’s question. “I do not speak of that trip often or lightly. I was there in ’56, for a brief time. It was…meant as a distraction from a great personal failure; I am not sure that it served its intended purpose, but it taught me many things, and there were…compensations.” A far-off smile graced the general’s face, an expression he had neither seen before nor thought to see. Despite the flaws in his teeth, it looked good on him.

Then or later, Alexander couldn’t say what made him do it, where the impulse to tease General Washington, the person least able to be teased on God’s earth, came from. “Was it the girls, sir? I was young, but I do remember the girls.”

“One girl,” the general said. “One woman, I should say. She was…singular.”

And this had just gone beyond uncomfortable, because if there was one thing Hamilton wanted to discuss even less than his own shameful origins, it was General Washington’s sex life.  _ Never drinking with him again, _ Hamilton thought.  _ Never ever. _ But since he was stuck here, he might as well use the spirits to cope with this intolerable situation. He drank deep once more, grateful for the heat of the whiskey as it pooled in his stomach.

“God, I haven’t danced like that in years. Nor even thought of it. It was rather like sparring, or the opening moves in a duel.”

And Alexander could almost see that, in his mind’s eye. General Washington was not the sort of man who could woo a lady with his words, the tactic Hamilton himself had always preferred. But his body? Oh, he could do that. 

Hamilton resolved not to ask any stupid questions, like  _ did you love her, _ or  _ was it a real courtship. _ He knew what men like Washington thought of Creole women. They were a draw for gentleman adventurers, rather like the climate. An interesting diversion, but not for the kind of polite dancing one did with a real lady. Hamilton couldn’t even fault the man for it…if he should live so long, he intended to marry a lady of breeding and fortune, just as General Washington had done.

“And what did she teach you, this singular woman of yours?” He thought—no, knew—that the question was too bold.

“Well, she tried to teach me French.” Hamilton could not help a far-too-loud snort. The general laughed. “So you see, Alexander, I have been hopeless for longer than you have been alive, and you need not blame yourself further on that score, for I was far more motivated to succeed in her lessons than yours, and I still didn’t learn anything.”

_ I need to stop drinking, right now, immediately, _ Alexander thought, draining his glass. “So you admit that you do not pay proper attention to my lessons, sir.”

“She was prettier,” said the general, unrepentant. “But mostly she taught me…that I couldn’t outrun the kind of man I was. That I couldn’t be other than who I am. I had tried, you see…so I owe her a great deal for that.”

Somehow there was a full glass in Alexander’s hand again. He didn’t question it. It would be rude to spurn the general’s hospitality by refusing, especially when the vintage was so expensive. “What kind of man did you learn you were, sir?”

“The kind who is never satisfied,” Washington said at once, in a way that made Alexander suspect he was quoting. His mystery woman, most likely. “The kind for whom nothing is ever enough.”

Alexander found himself nodding, and then babbling even more. “I am…the same sort of man, sir. The same as you, in this.” Though not in much else. He still didn’t know what similarity Washington had seen between them, upon their first meeting.

“I know, Alexander.” He sounded sad, for some reason. Why do I make you sad, sir? That seemed to be all he ever did besides frustrate Washington. “I know you are.”

“Perhaps we will find it yet, sir, in this cause. Our…satisfaction.” It was horrible, and Alexander knew he would answer for it someday, but even as their men starved and went without shoes, even as enlistments dropped off and they went to defeat after defeat, he was…almost happy. Less happy than he would be if he’d been left to fight, of course, but there were compensations: the company of the lads, the sense of a task well-done, John Laurens’s smile. Almost he could feel as though he were where he was meant to be at last.

“Perhaps,” said the general in the tone he used when one of the staff made some sort of conjecture not supported by evidence. It was Washington for,  _ My, but you are young _ . “It is a failing in me that war has not quenched, thus far, but you may yet find it. One would think with as much as I have lost I would be humble enough to be content with what I have, and yet…”

He did not wish to hear a litany of the general’s losses. Whatever they had been, they could not equal the loss of Alexander’s entire family, and Hamilton did not think his self-control could stand up to making the proper sympathetic noises to the man who held his future in the palm of his hand. “Have you not thought, sir, that perhaps that is why? That we who have lost much always strive, so that no one can take more away from us again?”

Shit, and now he had revealed too much of himself.  _ Should have just let him talk, Hamilton, that was stupid. _

“I do see the sense in that, Hamilton, yes. Though I would trade the accolades of the world and regard of the army, such as it is, in an instant in exchange for the life of my child.”

Oh, God. Alexander was obviously the worst, most selfish man on God’s earth, dismissing General Washington’s losses as nothing before he had even heard any of them. “I had not known…they said you were childless, sir.”

“I raised Patsy from a babe-in-arms, and her brother from not much older than that,” the general said, sounding almost angry. Perhaps Alexander wasn’t the only one who had had too much to drink. “My wife’s first husband gave them their name and fortune, so it was advantageous to them to remain his, in the eyes of the law. But I was their father.”

“I’m so sorry, sir, I had no idea…”

“Why would you?” The general shook his head. “I do not parade my griefs before the staff, that would be unfair. But you…you remind me of her sometimes. You’d have liked each other very much, I think.”

Just the sort of compliment a man wanted to get from his commanding officer.  _ You remind me of my dead daughter. _ Christ. “I am sure we would have, sir,” he said, because what the fuck else was he supposed to say? “How did she die?”

“In my arms,” said the general, matter-of-fact.

“Christ,” said Alexander. He half-expected to be rebuked for his language, but it didn’t come.

“She had always been sick, you see, had these fits that were frightful to look on, and then one day we were sitting at the table and she just…keeled over. I caught her and..well. The doctor claimed she wouldn’t have suffered, which was a comfort, I suppose.”

Alexander didn’t know what else to do except down more whiskey. This…this was not good. This was an intimacy he should never have been offered as the general’s staff aide. He knew Washington well enough to know how private he was, how little he wished to reveal his inmost self to his inferiors. Now he had given Alexander an advantage that, in the cold light of the morning, he could not help but regret.

Which meant Hamilton had to balance the scales somehow, in order to restore the equilibrium between them. He swallowed.  _ Sorry, Maman. I hope you don’t mind. _ “My mother died holding me. We make a sorry pair, don’t we, sir?”

He didn’t expect Washington’s response. “She…she died?” The man sounded…bewildered. Hurt. As if the idea that Alexander’s mother should be dead was something beyond his ken, which didn’t make any sense. Lots of people lost mothers. And fathers. And children, which Washington knew quite well.

“Yes, sir. We…both had a fever, and I got well, and she didn’t.” Even so many years later, it was hard for him to speak the words, each one feeling like an admission of guilt. I couldn’t seem to die, he thought, even though he had wanted to, even though he would give anything for their fates to have been reversed.

“When did she die?”

“‘68.” That was an odd question to ask. But then this whole evening had been odd, like Washington had been fishing for something, some vital information, only he hadn’t come right out and asked him for it, so Alexander couldn’t find what he sought.

Washington went very still, except for his hands, which had started trembling—Hamilton watched the amber spirits as they shook back and forth in the glass. “How old were you?”

The question was intent—Washington’s eyes never left Alexander’s face. Alexander almost told the old lie— _ old enough to work, sir, I can be of use. _ Thirteen, he’d been sometimes, sometimes older, though he mostly couldn’t get away with that.

“Eleven, sir.”

The decanter slipped out of Washington’s fingers, shattering on the floor and splashing the liquid onto the general’s boots.

“Sir!” said Alexander, alarmed. He immediately got to his feet, bent to pick up the shards of glass.

“No, boy, don’t touch those, I’ll have Lee get a broom.”

Hamilton was more than capable of cleaning up glass on his own, but never mind. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked. The general gripped his chair so hard his knuckles were white, and his face had gone ashen grey.

“I am well,” Washington said. He stared at Alexander for a long moment, but Alexander, who prided himself on his ability to read his commander, could not understand this expression at all. “I am…well,” he said again, with more conviction.

“If you will pardon my saying so, sir, this is hardly regular behavior for you.”

“You were born in ’57,” said Washington as if confirming a supposition. “Early, I should think, January or February.”

“January,” said Alexander, nonplussed. Why did it matter when his birthday was?

“I see. And your brother and you, what happened to you, once she died?”

How did he know about Jamie? But then Alexander remembered, he’d talked about their boyhood together this evening, hadn’t he? Had he mentioned he only had one brother? Lavien obviously didn’t count. “I…we’ve been on different paths, sir, I haven’t heard from my brother in a long time.” Shame flooded him, that James was still trapped on the islands, in an occupation little better than what a slave could get, and that his father was abandoned to penury. _ If you win glory here,  _ he reminded himself,  _ you’ll be able to help them both. End their embarrassment the way a son should do. _

“Good God, Alexander, I’m so sorry.”

Why did Alexander have the feeling he’d just told Washington far more than was in his words? Why hadn’t Washington asked about his father, for that matter, as though he assumed his father could not matter, could not have made any difference whatsoever in his life? His father had had a good reason for leaving. He wasn’t cruel or heartless. But he knew that Washington, who honoured his commitments no matter what, would never see it that way or understand the extenuating circumstances that forced James Hamilton’s hand. And besides, if he explained that, he would have to explain the court case, the bigamy that wasn’t, and he would willingly fall on his own bayonet before he shamed his mother in Washington’s eyes.

“It wasn’t so bad, sir,” he said instead. “Like I told you, we did all right. She left us enough to get by.” And there was no need to mention that he and Jamie had never seen a penny of that inheritance.

The general swallowed, visibly composing himself. Hamilton saw him forcibly relax his grip on the chair. “She did all right then. Your mother. On her own. She made it.”

Alexander thought back to the hours and hours he and his mother had spent poring over the books together, the sleepless nights she would spend doing extra odd jobs for Stevens so Alexander could have another book, the way she never let the insults people hurled at her in the streets so much as rattle her composure. Not her fault everything got taken from them when she was gone. “Yeah. Yeah, she did. Sir. She was…something else.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said Washington. “She raised you, didn’t she?”

Alexander forced himself to shrug, not at all comfortable with what that praise implied. “Hardly a glorious legacy for anyone, sir.”

“As to that, we shall see,” said Washington. “She’d be proud of you beyond the telling of it. That I do know.”

And that was Washington’s gift, to seem so certain even when racked by doubts. Alexander had always wondered about that question. He’d thought she might be, had always tried to behave in ways that would do her credit. But he couldn’t know. Washington sounded like he did, and God help him but he wanted to believe.

“How do you know, sir?” His voice sounded tremulous, petulant as a little boy’s. Damn Washington and his liquor anyway, making him say these things that he never would sober, not in a thousand years.

“Anyone would be, to have you for a son.”

**Author's Note:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> There is ambiguity about Alexander Hamilton's historical birthdate. Although I think it is more likely that he was born in 1755, Aegisverse (and its mirror Fig Tree) take the 1757 birthdate for him, for reasons that will hopefully become clear when I get off my ass and write the George/Rachel prequel.
> 
> George Washington's stepdaughter Martha Parke Custis died in 1773, at age 17, during an epileptic seizure.
> 
> Per Ron Chernow, Washington really did renovate Mount Vernon from his war camp. He was just as much of a human disaster as Hamilton, in his way, only quieter about it.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at [herowndeliverance.](herowndeliverance.tumblr.com)


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